


our doubts are traitors

by JenTheSweetie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multiple Universes, but also not AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-07 11:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenTheSweetie/pseuds/JenTheSweetie
Summary: multiverse \ ˈməl-tē-ˌvərs \n: a hypothetical collection of identical or diverse universes, including our own.OR: In which Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are something of a fixed point.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will have six parts, all posted in the next week and a half. 
> 
> So many thank yous to my dear Snapjack, whose suggestions improved this story dramatically and whose friendship is one of the things I am most thankful for, and to Chryse, who not only provided some of the inspiration for this fic but also provided encouragement when I needed it most. 
> 
> This story contains multiple universes. I'm happy to provide any clarifications in the comments, but to say more upfront would spoil it!

_i_

“My readers are going to love this one,” Watson said as he hopped down from the hansom.

“Are they?” Holmes said.  “I can’t imagine why, it was unspeakably simple.”

“Simple!” Watson exclaimed.  “Holmes, it involved a robbery on a train, a case of mistaken identity and a jewel of staggering value being carried around in a waistcoat pocket, how can you call that simple?”

“It was exceedingly clear that the so-called robbery had never actually occurred, and while the jewel may be staggeringly valuable by some measures, it was also hideous.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Watson said, opening the door to 221B Baker Street.  “I don’t blame Mrs. Carmichael for not wanting to wear it, though it was a bit excessive to set up a fake robbery.  I say, I think she quite enjoyed the attention, don’t you?  At least Mr. Carmichael was so relieved to get the money back that he gave us that nice bottle of Scotch.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said.  “Except I believe we’ve left it behind.”

“Oh, dear,” Watson said, stopping short in the middle of the stairs.  “I knew we were forgetting something.”

“I’ll send Billy for it in the morning.”

“Yes,” Watson said, taking off his hat, “but I was rather looking forward to a nice drink after spending three hours in the park lying in wait for the so-called thief.  I can still barely feel my toes!”

“We’ve most of a bottle of whiskey still, if you’re in need of something warm.”

“That will just have to do,” Watson said, grinning.  

_ii_

“Well, this won’t do,” the boy said.  He stared down at his chemical concoction, which was, notably, not doing anything at all. 

“You forgot the barium nitrate in the second phase,” Sherlock said.

The boy looked up at him, his brow furrowed, then back down.  “How d’you know that?”

“Because it would have worked if you hadn’t,” Sherlock said.  “Obviously.”

“What, have you taken this lab before or something?” the boy said, now frantically paging through his notes.

“No, I did this experiment when I was thirteen,” Sherlock said.

“Right, sure,” the boy said.  He peered down at his textbook.  “You’re _sure_  that’s what I missed?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.  “Just like I’m sure you’re a third year student training to be a doctor, you work part time at the library to help pay your expenses, you’ve got a girlfriend reading English Literature and you missed breakfast this morning.”

The boy stared at him, stunned.  “How do you know all of that?” 

Sherlock shrugged.  “This lab is reserved for people reading chemistry, unless the Bachelor of Medicine lab is full, then they let you come in here, and you’re not reading chemistry, obviously, because you’re terrible at it.  Your clothes are neat and clean but not trendy, so you’re clearly paying your own way through school, and the side of your hand is covered in ink smudges that have bits of numbers on them because you’re always stamping books in and out.  And you’ve got _Paradise Lost_  in your bag, which definitely isn’t part of the Bachelor of Medicine curriculum, and no medical student would read something he didn’t have to unless there was a girl he was desperate to impress.  Simple.”

The boy blinked through his goggles.  “And what about the breakfast?”

“Oh,” Sherlock said.  “Every medical student skips breakfast.”

“Of course,” the boy said.  “That was _amazing_.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together.  “You think so?”

“Absolutely,” the boy said.  “The way you - what, deduced all of that, just from looking at me? That was was really cool.”

“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock said.

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off,” Sherlock said.

The boy snorted.  “Well, anyway, thanks for letting me know about the barium nitrate,” he said.  “I can’t stomach the idea of starting over now.  Want to get lunch?”

“Lunch?” Sherlock said, blinking.

“Yeah, you know, the first meal of the day if you’re a medical student,” the boy said.  “I’m starving.  You can tell me all about the life histories of everyone at the tables around us - if you’re not busy, that is.”

“Busy?” Sherlock said.  “No.  I was just - ”  He looked down at his test tube, which seemed, at this point, unlikely to explode.  “Experimenting.”

“Right,” the boy said, dumping his failed reaction in the bin.  “I’m John, by the way.  John Watson.”

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said.

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes,” John said.  “How’s the food in this building?”

“Startlingly bad,” Sherlock said.

_iii_

John was startled awake by his phone.

“Yeah, speaking,” John murmured to the unknown number.  “What?  What happened, is she okay?  Oh my god.  Right, yes, I’m coming.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  “What is it?”

“Paramedics.  It’s Mrs. Hudson, she’s been shot,” John said.

“What, how,” Sherlock said.

“Probably one of the killers you managed to attract - Jesus.  Jesus,” John said.  “She’s dying, Sherlock.  Let’s go.”

“You go. I’m busy.”

“Busy?”

“Thinking.  I need to think.”

“You need to - doesn’t she mean anything to you?  You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!”

“She’s my landlady,” Sherlock said disdainfully.  

“She’s dying, you machine - ” John cut himself off.  “Sod this.  Sod this.  You stay here, if you want, on your own.”

“Alone is what I have,” Sherlock said.  “Alone protects me.”

“No,” John said, heading for the door, furious as hell and never, for all he cared, wanting to see Sherlock bloody Holmes again.  “Friends protect people.”   

“Wait,” Sherlock said.

John paused in the doorway. “ _What_?” he snapped, his voice taut with barely banked fury.

“Everything else you see today is a trick,” Sherlock said.  

John whirled around.  “What?  What are you talking about?”

“Don’t believe anything you see,” Sherlock said.  “After this moment, anything I tell you, anything I do - _it’s not real_.  Do you understand me?”

“What - no, no I don’t, not at all,” John said.  “Is this some kind of fucking _joke_  to you, Sherlock?”

“No,” Sherlock said.  “It’s not.”

“Right,” John said.  “Right, okay, well, I’m leaving, so - ”

“Just remember what I said,” Sherlock said.  “Promise me you’ll remember what I - ”

But John was already pulling the door shut behind him.

_iv_

John could hear the the violin before he even opened the door.  He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose; if he’d been hoping for a calm, quiet evening, it didn’t seem like he was going to get one.

Of course, if he’d been hoping for a calm, quiet evening, he probably shouldn’t have gone to see Sherlock Holmes.

By the time he got to the sitting room, the noise was approaching _screeching_.  “Sherlock,” he said loudly.  “Sherlock.  Sherlock!”

“What!” Sherlock said, lowering his bow.  “Oh.  Hello.”

“You were playing too loudly again,” John said.

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock said mutinously.

“If you’d just get your hearing checked, you would - ”

Sherlock lifted his bow and scraped it along the strings until it whined.  John could feel its pain.

“All right, all right,” John said, holding up his hands in surrender.  “Don’t listen to me, I’m just a _doctor_.”

“A retired doctor.”

“ _Partially_  retired,” John corrected, settling himself in his chair.  “And you weren’t calling me retired last week when you wanted to get access to those experimental whatsits - ”

“They’re nanobots, honestly, aren’t you ostensibly a man of _science_?” Sherlock said, setting his violin back in its case and flouncing into the chair across from him.

“Well,” John said, “I’m partially retired, aren’t I?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Has Rosie ever been stung by a bee?”

John, entirely used to Sherlock’s train of thought jumping the tracks after thirty years of knowing him, replied, “Yes, I think so.  When she was small.  Why do you ask?”

“Just checking,” Sherlock said.  

“Right,” John said.  “Listen, I’ve something to tell you.”

“I do as well,” Sherlock said.  “But you can go first, mine’s probably more important so we ought to get yours over with.”

“Okay,” John said.  “Mary and I are separating.”

Sherlock blinked.  

“So, yours is more important?” John said, smiling faintly.

Sherlock sat back in his chair.  “Things have become that dire?”

“Dire’s not the right word,” John said.  “It’s just - ”

 _It’s just_ , he thought, _I’ve never really forgiven her for lying about who she was and nearly murdering you, and I gave it my best shot because of the baby but now that baby’s 26 years old and there’s just no point trying anymore, is there, not when I haven’t trusted her for as long as I can remember, it’s just_ that _, isn’t it._

__

“- well, you know,” he finished.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, because he did; even if John had wanted to hide his marital woes from Sherlock, he wouldn’t have been able to.  

“We’re not fighting, or anything,” John said.  “We just don’t want to live together anymore.  It’ll be a change for the better, I think.”

“Right,” Sherlock said.

“We’ll still be a family, really, do the holidays together and everything.”

“Certainly.”

“And of course it’s not your fault, and we both love you very much.”

Sherlock blinked.  “What?” 

“Sorry, that was a joke,” John said.  “Not a very good one, really.  Anyway, it’s been a long time coming, and we’ve been talking about it for a while, and we just thought - well, now was as good a time as any, really.”

“You’ll move in here, of course,” Sherlock said.

John opened his mouth, then closed it.  “I’ll - wait, what?” 

“I’m storing several old microscopes on your bed currently, but most of them are obsolete at this point so we can just throw them away,” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone.  “I’ll drone you some new sheets from Amazon, they’ll be here by nightfall - ”

“Hang on,” John said.  “You - you want me to move in?  To 221B?”

“Where else would you go?” Sherlock said.

John stared at him.  “I hadn’t thought about it.  Mary’s been sleeping in Rosie’s room for a few weeks, we hadn’t quite got to figuring out the housing situation - ”

“Well, you have now,” Sherlock said.  

John found that he couldn’t think of a reason to argue, and, more importantly, he didn’t want to try too hard to find one.  “All right.  Well.  That’s that solved, then.  Are you sure you want - ”

“Don’t be dull,” Sherlock said.  

“Never,” John said.  “Right, then, what was it you had to tell me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said.

“You said it was important,” John said.

“It’s not, really,” Sherlock said.  “I was just thinking I might buy a house in Sussex and keep bees.”

“ _What_?” John said.  “You’re leaving London?”

“Part time,” Sherlock said.  “Ever since Lestrade retired it’s felt like everyone at the Yard is a _child_.  I’ll consult for them when they need me, and I’ll see clients, but some of them will be in Sussex.   _Bees_ , John.  They’ll go extinct if we don’t stop it, you know.”

“Yes, I do know,” John said.  “But - instead of crime?  Really?”

“They’re the hardest working creature found in nature,” Sherlock said.

“All right, then,” John said.  “I’m getting divorced and you’re getting bees.”

“Splendid,” Sherlock said.  “Sorry.  I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I’ve got leftover Chinese in the refrigerator,” Sherlock said, picking up his violin again and starting to play some sort of jig.

“Not even going to ask how you knew I was hungry,” John said.

_v_

“Sherlock,” John said, “where’s the leftover macaroni and cheese?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his microscope.  “In the bin.”

“Right,” John said.  “And why’s that?”

“Rosie didn’t want it and I needed space for my experiment.”

“Just because she tells you she doesn’t want something doesn’t mean you ought to throw it away,” John said.  “She’d have you throw away every last thing in here except maybe the ice cream.”

“She knows what she likes,” Sherlock said.

“She’s three and a half years old!”

“Then she has plenty of nights to eat macaroni and cheese in her future,” Sherlock said.  “Oh.  And you should probably not look at what I’ve replaced it with.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The compartments are a very useful size,” Sherlock said, avoiding the question.  “Honestly, John, your squeamishness is _far_  more morbid than - ”

“Sherlock, those containers are for _children’s meals,_ ” John said.  “Is it bugs?”

“Well,” Sherlock said, “ _bugs_  is an unscientific term, as you well - ”

“Sherlock!  Bugs,” John said, breathing through his nose, “do.  Not.  Live.  In.  Tupperware.”

“Now that’s just - ”

“Bugs live in many places, and the good tupperware is none of them.”

“But - ”

“No bugs!” John said, shutting the refrigerator door firmly.  “By the time I’m back from picking her up, all the bugs will be gone from our refrigerator and our refrigerator will have no bugs.”

“What if they’re - ”

“No exceptions!  If it’s a bug, or if it’s bug-adjacent, it’s gone.” 

“But - ”

“No bugs!” John singsonged on his way out the door.

An hour later, the bugs, as John persisted in calling them even though he was ostensibly a man of science, were all gone from the refrigerator, much to Sherlock’s annoyance - you never knew when you might need a good sample of two day old maggots - and Sherlock had even organized the veg by color and size, which John would surely not notice at all.  

“You father made me get rid of the maggots,” Sherlock said in place of a greeting when Rosie rocketed up the stairs.

“Daddy!”  Rosie said.  “We _needed_  those maggots!”

“Yeah, no, you didn’t,” John said.

“We _did_ ,” Rosie said.

“What did you need them _for_?”

“Ex-peri-ments,” Rosie said carefully.

John pressed his lips together to hide his smile.  “Well, they’re gone.  Now go wash your hands for dinner, all right?”

“I’m going to miss my maggots,” Rosie said sadly, heading for the bathroom.

“ _Don’t_  say a word,” John choked, but it was too late: they both burst out laughing.

Sherlock liked watching John laugh; he’d missed it terribly during the years John hadn’t done it very often.  He thought sometimes that he could probably make a very interesting study of all John’s different types of laughs: the full-belly ones that caught him by surprise, the sniggers when he thought he shouldn’t be laughing at all, the near-giggles that accompanied a sudden rush of adrenaline, his eyes bright as he stared up at Sherlock with that look that meant _Lead the way._

__

Making a catalog of your flatmate’s laughs: good, or not good?  Perhaps he’d ask John one day.

“My god,” John gasped, finally straightening up from what Sherlock thought of as his laugh-so-you-don’t-shout-at-Sherlock laugh.  “You’ll be the death of me, you two will.”  Chuckling, he clapped his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, which was normal, and left his hand there, in a lingering sort of way, which was _not_  normal.

Sherlock paused.  Casual contact: that was one of the ways people, i.e. John, showed affection to friends, i.e. Sherlock, but it was rarely so… extended.  Had John perhaps lost the use of his hand?  Sudden paralysis; rare, but not out of the question.  

No: paralysis was definitely not the problem, because now John’s hand was… squeezing, a bit, sort of massaging a spot on Sherlock’s shoulder that was, admittedly, rather tense.  Did mates give each other casual massages these days?  

“John,” Sherlock said.

“Mm?”

“Your hand is - ” 

“Sorry,” John said, and his hand pulled away so quickly it was as if Sherlock’s shoulder had caught fire.

“No, it wasn’t a problem,” Sherlock said.  “Actually it was quite nice.”  He stared fixedly at the microbe on his slide.  Why had he said nice _?_   He hated nice.  Didn’t he hate nice?  

“Okay,” John said. 

There was an awkward silence that Sherlock suspected would have gone on until the heat death of the universe if it hadn’t been for the buzz of his phone.

Sherlock scrambled for it gratefully.  “Yes?”

“I’ve got a body in the morgue that you might be interested in,” Lestrade said.  “Found yesterday morning slumped over on a bench in a park in Vauxhall with paraphernalia in her pockets, looked like an OD.”

“Dull,” Sherlock said.

“Right, we thought so too,” Lestrade said.  “But then we got her cause of death.  She drowned.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Sherlock said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the parts may not necessarily happen in the same order each time. Beware the roman numerals.

_ii_

“Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready to go,” Sherlock said

“You said that half an hour ago,” John said, turning to the next page of _Middlemarch_ without looking up.

“Yes, but you’ve been reading the same page in that book since then,” Sherlock pointed out.

John shot him two fingers.  

“I don’t know why you bother,” Sherlock said, carefully setting aside the maggots for another day’s experiments.  “Jeanette doesn’t expect you to finish her course reading.  She’s barely capable of finishing it herself.”

“Don’t call her an idiot,” John said warningly.

“I didn’t!”  


“You implied it,” John said.  “And anyway, maybe I like _Middlemarch_.”

“You don’t,” Sherlock said, stuffing the maggots into storage marked ‘ _No live specimens._ ’  

“No, I don’t,” John said, slamming the book shut.  “It’s bloody awful, I can’t figure out why any copies survived the 19th century.  Your dining hall or mine?”

“Yours,” Sherlock said.  

“Good, I want you to see if you can tell if the bloke down the hall is sleeping with Nicola Martin.”

“Which one is Nicola Martin?” Sherlock said.

“The one with the huge, you know - ”

“Oh, right,” Sherlock said.  

“Honestly, I don’t see how you can forget _her_ ,” John said.  

“Not really my area,” Sherlock said.  “Speaking of women, there’s a man stealing shoes from undergraduates at Lady Margaret.”

“Really?” John said.  “What for?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Sherlock said.  “Someone reading biochemistry was talking about it in the lab earlier; she kept saying that they must have walked away on their own.  It’s clearly a repeat offender.”

“Missing high heels, eh?” John said.  “Sounds like the work of a criminal mastermind to me.”

The Case of the Runaway Pumps, as John exasperatingly insisted on calling it, carried them through their pork pies, and John was just tucking into a trifle when Sherlock saw an all-too-familiar shit-eating grin coming toward him.  

“So this is where you’ve been hiding out, Holmes,” Sebastian Wilkes crowed, dropping into the chair next to Sherlock’s.

“Hello, Sebastian,” Sherlock said warily.  

“This your boyfriend, then?” Sebastian said, nodding at John.

“No,” John said quickly.  “I’m not - _we’re_  not - ”

“He has a girlfriend,” Sherlock said.

“That’s good, you can definitely do better, mate,” Sebastian said, winking at John.  “You should see Holmes in the morning before he does his hair.  Spends nearly as much time as the girls on those curls, don’t you?”  

“Sebastian lives on my hall,” Sherlock said.  “I have the distinct pleasure of running into him when he’s coming home from dates in the early hours of the morning.”

“Always a different girl, too, I’ll have you know,” Sebastian said.  “Listen, Sherlock, do you think you can connect me with that bloke of yours?  The one with the seven per cent solution - ”

“Not right now,” Sherlock bit out.  

“Tonight, then?” Sebastian said.  

“Are you sure you want to be purchasing so much this early in your banking career, Sebastian?” Sherlock said.  “Your father at least waited until he’d made his first million before he started, shall we say, blowing it.”

“Fuck off, Holmes,” Sebastian said.  “You think you’re funny, do you?”

“Occasionally,” Sherlock said, and across the table, John snorted.

“Yeah, you do think you’re funny,” Sebastian said, pushing himself back from the table.  “You think you’re a funny fucking poof.”

“Hang on,” John said.

“Tonight, Holmes!” Sebastian called over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

John narrowed his eyes.  “He’s - ”

“Not worth it,” Sherlock said.

“He gets his cocaine through you?” John said.

Sherlock shrugged.  “It keeps him and his friends out of my way.”

“But _you_  don’t use it, right?” 

“I’m not an _idiot_ ,” Sherlock snapped.  

“That’s good,” John said, sounding relieved.  “Well, fuck him.  There’s no reason to - and anyway, there’s nothing _wrong_  with - ”

“Sebastian’s a moron,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah,” John said.  He cleared his throat.  “You know my sister’s gay, right?”

“You’ve mentioned,” Sherlock said, trying not to roll his eyes.

“Right,” John said.  “Anyway, I’d better go, I’m supposed to meet Jeanette.  I’ll stop by the lab tomorrow, yeah?”

“If you’d like,” Sherlock said, staring down at his plate.  

“See you,” John said, grabbing his books and heading for the exit, and Sherlock gathered his own things and went back to his dark, empty dormitory where, at the very least, it was quiet.

_iii_

The flat was dark, and empty, and quiet.

There was a cold cup of tea by his elbow; Mrs. Hudson had left it there with a choked, “I’ll check on you in the morning, then,” and hadn’t even made it out of the room before she’d started weeping again.   

_Everything else you see today is a trick_.

__

Sherlock had jumped off the roof.

__

_Don’t believe anything you see._

__

Sherlock’s body had been on the pavement, and he hadn’t had a pulse.

_Promise me you’ll remember what I -_

He was _gone_.

Wasn’t he?

John scrubbed a hand over his face.  

“He’s my friend,” he’d said, “he’s my friend - please, let me go with him, let me - ” but the people on the street had held him back with strong hands, they’d stopped him from going with Sherlock -

_It’s not real_.

“Next of kin only,” the doctor had said blankly when John had finally fought his way into the hospital, and suddenly Mycroft was there, and he just closed his eyes and held up one hand.

“He wouldn’t have wanted you to see him like this,” Mycroft said, and then Lestrade had taken John by the elbow and John hadn’t noticed much else for a while.

_It’s not real_.  John rapped his fingers on the arm of the chair.  Outside, an ambulance went by.  The night stretched out endlessly in front of him.

And that was when he heard the footsteps.

_iv_

“So how’s life at Baker Street?” Rosie said.  “I heard from Sherlock that you’ve already disrupted several of his experiments.  Is it like it was before you married Mum?”

“Give or take 30 years,” John said.  “He still plays the violin at all hours and keeps terrifying things in the crisper.  D’you know, I found maggots in the tupperware the other day?”

“He used to let me play with them,” Rosie remembered, smiling fondly.  “Should I be expecting to hear you two blew up the place?”

“No more than usual, I should think,” John said.  Rosie had taken her parents’ separation quite well: she’d cried a bit, and then admitted that she was more relieved than anything else because she wanted them to be happy and she knew they hadn’t been in ages, and then they’d all cried a bit, and then they’d gone for gelato and Sherlock had sent John a photo of a headless corpse while they ate it.  

“That’s good,” Rosie said.  “Last night he was texting me about different types of honey, do you know anything about that?”

“Of course, the bees,” John said, rolling his eyes.  “If you can believe it, he’s talking about buying a place in Sussex because he wants to set up an apiary, of all things.  I keep saying that the best crime in the world is in London, but you know you can’t argue with him. ”

“Well, he can’t run after criminals forever,” Rosie said.  “He’s only a few years younger than you, and you’re nearly _elderly_  at this point, Dad.”

“Ha bloody ha,” John said.  “65 isn’t _elderly_.”

“I said _nearly_ ,” Rosie said.  “So he’s actually going to move?

“He’s going down to look at cottages this weekend.”

“You should go with him,” Rosie said.  

“I’m sorry, what?” John said.  

“To look for a place.  I mean, since you’ll live there with him one day,” Rosie said.

“What are you on about?  I’m only living at Baker Street while your mother and I sort out the house,” John said.  

“Sure,” Rosie said.  “If you say so.  You ought to help him look anyway.  If he finds something he likes he’ll probably forget to ask if it’s got a bathroom or access to a road.”

“You’re probably right,” John said.  “And this way I can make sure he gets something with a guest room up to his goddaughter’s standards.”

“I appreciate that,” Rosie said.  “Maybe something with a swimming pool?”

“Don’t push your luck,” John said.

_v_

“Swimming pool, bathtub or Thames?” Sherlock said.

“I’m having a great day, Sherlock, thanks for asking,” Lestrade said.  

“Don’t know why you bother, mate,” John said.

“Where did she drown?” Sherlock said, because ignoring both of them came as naturally to him as breathing.  “Don’t tell me you haven’t run an analysis of the water you found in her lungs.”

“I’ve got the full autopsy report for you right here,” Lestrade said, handing it to him as they entered the morgue.  “Name’s Hillary Jacobs, age 28.  She’s got an ASBO from her time at uni and nothing else on her record.  We’re running a toxicology screen, but she had a used syringe in her purse.”

“She was found with her purse?” John said.

“With a purse and completely dry,” Lestrade said.  “Which was why we didn’t think ‘drowning’ until the medical examiner stepped in.  Her makeup was done and everything - if it looks like a junkie, and it quacks like a junkie…”

Sherlock lifted her wrist, then pulled out his magnifying glass to examine her neck.  “It’s obvious she was attacked.  She’s broken two nails and you can see the outline of a thumb on her throat.”

“Well, yeah, we figured it out eventually,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock had already dropped the woman’s hand in favor of the report.  “As I suspected.  Tap water - likely a bathtub, possibly an industrial sink.”

John peered at the inside of her elbow.  “No track marks.  She may have used, but she doesn’t look like an addict.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, scrolling through her Facebook feed.  “But someone wanted us to think she was.  You said she was found with her purse?”

“In here,” Lestrade asked, holding up an evidence bag.  Sherlock grabbed it and examined the contents quickly - the syringe was there, along with a wallet, several hair ties, a littering of crumpled receipts, a bright pink lipstick and a phone.  On the whole, purses were incredibly dull.  Sherlock had once found a severed thumb in a woman’s purse, and it had very nearly surprised him.

“You’ve downloaded the data off of this?” Sherlock said, holding up the phone. 

“Course,” Lestrade said.  “We’re going through her messages now, but there doesn’t seem to be anything - ”

“I’ll take it, then.”  Sherlock dropped the phone into his pocket.

Lestrade sighed; he was too used to Sherlock filching evidence to argue.  “You’ve got a theory?”

“Several,” Sherlock said, snapping off his gloves and dropping them into the bin.  

“I’ll keep you updated,” John called over his shoulder, following Sherlock out of the morgue.  “You think someone murdered her?”

“Of course someone murdered her,” Sherlock said.  “Want to stop for Chinese?  I bet Rosie would eat cream cheese rangoons for dinner.”

“Sometimes I wish I carried a tape recorder around,” John said.  “Do you think the papers would believe you can accuse someone of murder and figure out what to feed a toddler in one breath?”

“I think the papers would believe anything you tell them,” Sherlock said.

“And when it comes to you, they’d even pay,” John said.

_i_

“My God, did we _pay_  for this?” Watson said, pulling a face at the whiskey.  

“Beggars and choosers, Watson,” Holmes said, tucking into the trifle Mrs. Hudson had left for them and ignoring the pork pie completely.

Watson lifted his glass.  “To another successful case.”

“And another tale for your beloved readers,” Holmes said.  “Salacious and overwrought as it may be.”

“Tread lightly, Holmes - my stories in the Strand paid for that whiskey,” Watson said, nodding at the glass.

They downed their glasses together.  “Not something to boast about, my dear man,” Holmes gasped around the liquor.

Watson chuckled and poured them both another, then went to his desk and pulled out a fresh stack of paper.  “Time to put pen to paper before the details escape me completely.”

“No need,” Holmes said.  “Your readers don’t mind exaggeration, hyperbole or even outright fabrication.”

Watson rolled his eyes.  “My readers might not, but I certainly do.  Hmm.  How would you describe Mrs. Carmichael?”

“Stupid,” Holmes said promptly.  “Shallow.  A reasonably competent prevaricator, but completely without comprehension of the ever important fact that only lies have detail.”

“I meant how would you describe how she _looks_?” Watson clarified.

“Oh,” Holmes said.  He took a drink of whiskey and searched his memory.  “Well.  Dark hair, was it?  Unremarkable face.  Altogether average, in short.”

“Very helpful, thank you,” Watson said, rolling his eyes.

“Women’s appearances are not really my area,” Holmes said.  “Rather more yours, in fact.”

“Perhaps,” Watson said.  “Though of late I’ve been too busy with our cases to notice many.”

Holmes put his glass down.  “I’ve never compelled you to follow me around,” he said.  “I’m certainly not in need of a biographer, and your limited medical knowledge notwithstanding - ”

“Holmes, Holmes, come now,” Watson said, holding up his hands in surrender.  “Not for anything would I trade our hours together traipsing through London after criminals and misfits, surely you know that.  And if you don’t know it, then I am entirely to blame for not saying it often enough.”

Holmes merely glared at the fire.

“Well, then,” Watson said.  “If you’re set on having one of your little sulks, I won’t interrupt.  I’ll be happy to write in silence the whole night through, in fact - ”

“You did once,” Holmes said.

“Pardon?” Watson said, not looking up from his writing.

The whiskey had loosened Holmes’ tongue, made it reckless and cruel like it too often was.  “You did trade our hours together, once, for a woman.”

Watson paused in his scribbling.  “Mary was a special woman, and she was not meant to replace you.”  He cleared his throat and finished his whiskey, his eyes never straying from his papers.  “Just like you do not replace her in your return.”

Holmes felt suddenly chagrined.  “My apologies, Watson,” he said.  “You know I didn’t mean - ”

“Yes, I know,” Watson said quietly.  “It’s already forgotten.”

He went back to his writing, and Holmes imagined he could read the words upside down and across the room: _Holmes, clever though he may be, is singularly callous in his dealings with those few he counts among his friends and colleagues_.   _His genius does not prevent him from spoiling the finest moments with self-absorbed churlishness, and it does seem, at times, that he never shall learn._

Holmes shook his head to clear it.  “Another?” he said, lifting the whiskey and holding it in Watson’s direction.

Watson looked up and smiled, just a bit.  “Please,” he said, and Holmes filled the other man’s first and then his own and, feeling that he did not deserve the forgiveness Watson heaped upon him, he sat down, content to watch the fire.


	3. Chapter 3

_iii_

John stood up, his heart leaping into his throat.  

“Who’s there?” he said.  He hadn’t heard anyone come up the stairs, and the only person he knew to arrive via the back window was - 

“Hello,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, you _arsehole_ ,” John said, and then he was across the room, his arms thrown around Sherlock’s shoulders.  

“I told you not to believe it,” Sherlock said, sounding a bit uncomfortable.

“You jumped off the _roof_ ,” John shot back, laughing a little manically and shoving Sherlock away.  “You absolute _shit_  - ”

“Shhh,” Sherlock hissed, crowding up to John again and grabbing his arm.  “I’m still dead as far as everyone else is concerned.”

“You don’t feel like a ghost to me,” John said, sliding his hand into Sherlock’s curls, cupping the head he’d so recently seen wrecked.  “Very solid.  Incredible, really, because a few hours ago - ”

“It was a trick,” Sherlock said.  

John pulled his hand away.  “How?  Sherlock, you - you didn’t have a _pulse_.” 

“It was a _good_  trick.  You had to believe I was dead.  Everyone did.”

“Right, I’m sure there was a _really_  good reason to make me believe you’d killed yourself right in front of - ”

“Moriarty had a sniper for each of you,” Sherlock said.  “Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and _you_.  And if I didn’t kill myself they would have shot you.”

John opened his mouth, then closed it.  “But how did you - ”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said.  “Moriarty is dead, but his network is still very much alive.  I’ve got to dismantle it, and it’s much easier to do that as a dead man than as a living one.  I’ll be out of the country before dawn.”

“I’ll come with you,” John said.  “I’ll - ”

“No,” Sherlock said.  “You can’t.  I have to do this alone.”

“What is this obsession with _alone_?” John said.  “I’m your - your colleague, aren’t I?  I should be with you.”

“No, what you should be doing is grieving,” Sherlock said.  “Publicly.”

“Doesn’t that sound fun,” John said.

“You’ve no idea the risk I’m taking just being here now.”

“The risk _you’re_  taking - so you would have let me think you were gone?” John said.  “You would have left me here wondering if I should believe what you’d said or what I’d seen, losing my mind thinking - ”

“Clearly I wouldn’t have,” Sherlock snapped, “since I’m here right now, aren’t I, even though it may very well cost me my life?”

They were both breathing as hard as if they’d just chased a criminal through central London, and the anger leaked out of John’s chest.  “Jesus.   _Jesus_ , Sherlock.  I thought - ”

“I know,” Sherlock said.  “I thought it would be - easier to let you think I was dead, to hurt you myself than to - than to see you hurt by someone else.  But your voice, when you thought - I didn’t know it would - _affect_  me - so much.”  He ran a hand through his hair and looked around the flat.  “I shouldn’t be here at all.  I have to leave.”

“No,” John said, the words spilling from his mouth.  “Not yet, surely.  You’ve only just - Sherlock, when you - there were things I should have said, things I never said, and when I thought you were gone, I - ”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said, his voice very quiet.  “It won’t make it any easier.”

“Sod easier,” John said, but he pressed his lips together and looked away until he could be sure his voice was steady.  “How long, then?”

“A year,” Sherlock said.  “Perhaps more.”

“A _year_ ,” John breathed.  “And me playing the role of the grieving widow, hm?”

“I wouldn’t have used those words exactly,” Sherlock said, a smile crossing his face briefly.  He held out his hand.  “To the very best of times.”

John pushed it aside and threw his arms around the other man’s neck again.  

“Oh,” Sherlock said, sounding a bit surprised.  “We’re doing hugging now?”

“You made me watch you jump off a building, you can stand a hug.”  John took a deep breath, throwing all sense and sanity to the wind, and pulled Sherlock’s head down so he could press their foreheads together.  “Be safe, you idiot.”

“You’ll keep me right, John Watson,” Sherlock said, his breath ghosting across John’s lips, and John’s heart sped up, because there was no denying what this looked like, what this was about to be, what this _would_  be if he - 

He pulled back.  “Right, then,” he said.  “Off you go.”

Sherlock blinked at him several times.  “Yes,” he said finally, and then he was gone, back to his bedroom and out the window - the _window_ , honestly, Sherlock - and just before he swung his leg over he looked back, down the hall where John stood gaping after him, and smiled, just for a second, and then he was gone.

John laughed shakily and leaned against the wall.  It was going to be a very, very long year.

_iv_

“Thirty years is a very, very long time to put up with anyone,” John said, “and it may well be the case that today is the day I reach my absolute _limit_.”

“Are you talking?” Sherlock shouted from the roof of the cottage.  “I can’t hear you from up here!”

The estate agent smiled in a sort of manically cheerful way.  “He really shouldn’t be - ”

“Yes, I know,” John said.  “Sherlock, please come down from there.  If you fall and break your neck, they’re not going to let us buy it.”

“How can I buy a house if I don’t know if the roof will hold my weight?” Sherlock said, as if this were an obvious concern when purchasing property.  “You can see the sea from here, John!”

John shook his head and turned to the estate agent.  “So, three bedrooms, you said?” 

“And two baths,” she said.  “The kitchen was remodeled just a few years ago, it’s a bit small but really very livable - er, would you like to come inside?”

“Yes, that would be the normal first step to looking at a home, I imagine,” John sighed as Sherlock climbed down the latticework.  “Sherlock, we’re going to - ”

But he was already gone, sprinting around the corner of the cottage to the garden in back.

“Well, let’s have a look then, shall we?” John said, leading the way toward the front door.  “Ah, yes.  The light in here seems very nice.  Is that a - yes, that’s a cupboard.  Wonderful, wonderful.”

“And the kitchen is just through this way,” the agent said, gesturing toward the back of the cottage.  “It’s got a nice view of the garden.”

The garden in question, at the moment, was mostly empty but for some shrubbery and Sherlock Holmes, who was lying face down at the edge of the hedges - yes, he appeared to be smelling the ground.  

“Well, that’s nice,” John said, stepping up to the sink.  “I’d have a view of him and his bees, then.”

“Bees?” the estate agent said.

“Nevermind.”

“Lovely,” she said, starting to look a bit nervous about being out in the middle of nowhere with two madmen.  “How many years have the two of you been married, then?”

“Oh, we’re not,” John said.  

“My apologies,” she said.  “I just assumed - ”

“John!” Sherlock shouted, popping up from the ground directly outside the kitchen window.  “The dirt is perfect!  We’ll take it!”

“Sherlock, you haven’t even seen the inside of the - all right, yes, I think he’ll probably be buying it,” John sighed.  “It’s a nice area, then?  Any recent murders nearby?”

“Oh, no,” the agent said quickly.  “Not at all, the village is _very_  safe.”

“Well, that will just be his cross to bear,” John said.  “No, Sherlock, _don’t_  climb the drainpipe - honestly, I can’t take you anywhere.”

_ii_

“How is it,” John said, “that you can find me anywhere?”

“You’re extremely predictable,” Sherlock said, settling into the booth across from John.  “I’ve got a lead in the high heels case.”

“A lead in the - Sherlock, can’t we talk about it later?” John said.  “I’ll come by the lab tomorrow, all right?”

“But he’s going to strike again tonight!” Sherlock said.  

“Strike what?” Jeanette said from where she was squeezed against the wall of the booth.  

“Oh, hello, Janice,” Sherlock said, grabbing a breadstick off John’s plate and stuffing it into his mouth.  

“It’s Jeanette,” Jeanette said.

“If you say so,” Sherlock said.  He pulled a twenty pound note out of his pocket and threw it on the table.  “Come on, John, we’ve got to be at the first floor of Lady Margaret before eight thirty.”

“But - ”

“Could be dangerous,” Sherlock said.  

John looked between Jeanette, who was glaring at Sherlock, and Sherlock, who couldn’t be bothered to notice because he was absorbed in his breadstick.  “Yeah, all right.”

“John!” Jeanette said.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll call you later, okay?” he said, leaning across the table to peck her on the lips.  

“Whatever,” Jeanette said.

Sherlock was already out of the booth and heading for the door; he slowed his gait to allow John to catch up.  “So what’s your lead?” John said.

“I started asking around about the shoes, because clearly it was the work of a lone thief,” Sherlock said.  “There had to be some kind of connection between the women he was stealing from.”

“And was there?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said.  “They’re all reading Economics.  Now, who do all Economics undergraduates interact with?”

“Er,” John said.  “Economics professors?”

“Do you really think a _professor_  is walking into Lady Margaret and leaving with women’s shoes and no one’s noticing?  Honestly, do they give out university acceptances just for effort these days?”

“Well, you only gave me a moment to - ”

“ _Graduate assistants_ , John,” Sherlock said.  “They’d have no trouble blending in amongst the undergraduates in the dorm.  Then it was just a matter of determining which graduate assistants they’d all had contact with and narrowing it down based on schedule.  All of the shoes have gone missing on weekend nights when the women were away from school or visiting family.  I had one victim spread it around that she’d be out of town this evening; we’ll be waiting for him in her room.”

“Hang on,” John said.  “You dragged me out of a date so I could sit with you in a girl’s dormitory waiting for some bloke to _maybe_  break in and steal a pair of shoes?”

“Yes, exactly.”  Sherlock glanced at him.  “Why, is that a problem?”

“Not at all,” John said, grinning.

Two hours later, the High Heeled Hoodlum, as John called him, had begged for forgiveness (“I only wanted to _look_  at them,” he swore, “or maybe just smell them once in a while,” at which point John yanked the man’s arm behind his back a little harder) and returned all the shoes to their proper owners.

“That was incredible,” John said, grinning at Sherlock as they returned to his room.  “ _You_  were incredible, it was like we were in one of those old movies - I can’t believe we went on an actual stakeout - ”

“A successful stakeout,no less,” Sherlock said, pulling off his coat.  “I don’t think he’ll be wandering into any wardrobes anytime soon.”

“I should hope not,” John said.  “Oh, you’ve got a message, mate.”

Sherlock didn’t even look at the red blinking light.  “It’s for you.”

“But we’re in _your_  room.”

“Yes, but no one calls me,” Sherlock said.  “Except you.  And you’re here.  So it must be for you.”

John pressed play on the recorder.  “ _Hello, this is Jeanette.  If John’s there, can you please tell him to call me?  If he can spare a moment for his_ girlfriend _, that is.  Thanks, bye.”_

__

“Told you it was for you,” Sherlock said.  

John sighed.  “Shite.  I’d better call her.  Jesus, I can’t believe you convinced me to leave in the middle of _dinner_  - ”

“No one forced you to come along,” Sherlock said.

“You said it would be dangerous!”  


“I said it _could_  be dangerous,” Sherlock corrected.

“How could a pervert stealing shoes be _dangerous_  - forget it,” John said.  “Just forget it.  I should probably go see her.”

“I’m sure it can wait until morning.”

“How would you know?  It’s not like you’ve got a girlfriend,” John said.  “Or - you know, whatever - ”

“Just trust me, you should wait until tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, what?  Why shouldn’t I go see my girlfriend on a Friday night, hm?”

“Because she’s sleeping with one of your rugby mates,” Sherlock said.

There was a long silence.

“Why would you say that,” John said, very quietly.

“Because it’s true,” Sherlock said.

“Deduced it, have you?  Like the shoes?” 

“The signs are there for anyone to see,” Sherlock said.  “Anyone who could be bothered to open up their eyes and _observe_  - ”

“Shut up,” John said.

“John - ”

“Just shut _up_ ,” he snapped, and then he pulled the door open and slammed it shut behind him.

Sherlock stared at the door until it became very clear that it wasn’t going to open again, and then he picked up his violin and, hoping that it would annoy the shit out of Sebastian Wilkes, began to play.

_i_

“Well, that’s that done,” Watson said, setting down his nib pen with a _click_.  “Shall we have some music?”

“Music?” 

“Music, Holmes!” Watson said, gesturing to the open violin case across the room.  “Won’t you play something?”

“If you wish,” Holmes said.  He tore his eyes from the crackling fire and looked at his friend.  “What would you prefer?  Something _popular_ , no doubt?”

“You’re the musician, my good man,” Watson said, crossing the room to pour himself another whiskey.  “I leave it entirely up to you.”

Holmes took the pipe from his mouth and set it on the table before lifting his Stradivarius from its case.  “You take quite the risk, giving me such power.”

“I’m in a very gracious mood,” Watson said, topping off Holmes’s glass and handing it to him.  “If perhaps a slightly inebriated one.  I suppose I can trust you not to torture my eardrums with anything that screeches too terribly?”

“Trust is a dangerous thing,” Holmes said, pulling the bow across the strings and holding Watson’s gaze.

Watson broke first, a smile flitting across his face.  “Enough talk, then - punish me for my trust, if you must.”

Holmes smirked.  “Not punish, Watson, never punish.”  

Watson settled back in his armchair and watched as Holmes wandered idly from Brahms to Bocherrini to something of his own and then back again; the man was clearly indifferent to the change of composer and even genre, but he sipped his whiskey and watched attentively, his eyes dark in the firelight.

“You do know, I hope,” Watson said, as Holmes finished a calm Mendelssohn and paused, contemplating his next piece, “that I don’t plan to do it again.”

Holmes paused.  “Pardon?”

“Marry, that is,” Watson said.  “Why would I?  There’s nothing I would trade this life of ours for, here in 221B.”

“Mrs. Hudson will be glad to hear it; it will save her the trouble of finding a new boarder.”

Watson laughed.  “You’re being purposely obtuse.”

“And you’re being sentimental,” Holmes said, lifting his bow once more.  “What next, then?  A waltz?”

“Oh, yes, please,” Watson said.  “I should like to see you dance again.”

“We agreed not to speak of that,” Holmes said.

“We did no such thing,” Watson cried.

In response, Holmes lifted his chin and began to pluck at the strings in a ludicrously fussy way.  Watson laughed and leaned back in his chair, amber liquid sloshing in his glass.  “But can you dance while you play?  You are the cleverest man in London, after all.”

“Musicality has nothing to do with cleverness,” Holmes said.  “If it did, you’d be a better a dancer.”

“How gifted you are, to compliment and snub me in the same breath,” Watson said, feigning affront.  “Shall I prove my proficiency in the waltz?”

“You are welcome to make an attempt,” Holmes said.

Watson threw back the rest of his glass and leapt to his feet with the energy of a younger man.  “Now remember that I’m out of practice,” he said, holding his arms up stiffly.  “And not exactly in my prime, either.”

“I must say that you’re not inspiring much confidence.”

“Well, it would be easier with a partner!” Watson said, waltzing woodenly around the sitting room.

“Excuses!” 

Laughing, Watson dropped his arms mid-whirl.  “I feel terribly stupid.  And _don’t_  say that should feel familiar.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Holmes lied.  

He laid down the Strad and lifted the needle of the gramophone in the corner.  After a crackle, it began to play.   

“Now,” Holmes said, clearing his throat.  “Impress me, my good man.”

Watson grinned.  “Do I get to lead?”

“Can you follow?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then I believe we have our answer.”

They met in the middle of the floor, and after a moment of tangled arms, they sorted themselves and began a leisurely waltz.  

“Now, even you can admit I’m passable,” Watson said, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“I suppose we haven’t yet fallen over,” Holmes allowed.  The room spun around them, and Holmes couldn’t tell if it was that or the whiskey or Watson, so very close, that was making him dizziest.

“And keep in mind that I’m used to doing this with someone shorter than me, not a whole head taller.”

Holmes stiffened, prepared to pull away.  “Yes, I’m aware you’d prefer a more feminine companion.”

“I never said prefer,” Watson said, his gaze steady.

Holmes swallowed and opened his mouth - to say what, precisely, he had no idea, but something always came to him - when he knocked directly into the end table.  It clattered to the floor, upsetting several books and a cold cup of tea, which shattered cacophonously.   

“Shhh, look at the time,” Watson said, laughing, but Holmes didn’t care at all, and so, behind closed doors and at least until the song was done, they continued to dance.

_v_

“Time to read,” Rosie announced, snatching Sherlock’s laptop out of his lap.

“Rosie,” Sherlock said patiently (because he had a nearly unlimited well of patience when it came to Rosie, who was perfect and brilliant unlike every other human being on Earth), “I’m busy.”  

“No,” Rosie said.  “We’re reading now.”

Now _that_  was an argument that Sherlock recognized.  

“All right,” he said, realizing that this was John meant when he said _children copy behaviours they see, you know, just something to think about,_  and resolving never to admit it even under penalty of death.  “What are we reading?”

Rosie settled into Sherlock’s lap.  “Tikki Tikki Tembo.”

“God help me,” Sherlock said as she opened to the first page.   _Tikki Tikki Tembo_  was not among the very worst of children’s literature - it did include a rather exciting near-death scene as well as an obnoxious older brother who got his comeuppance, after all - but it was far from Sherlock’s preferred reading for Rosie, which generally included a lot of fascinating content about musculature and weather patterns and explosives. “You can read this one on your own now, I know you can.”

“No I can’t,” Rosie said, which was a lie.  “Read, please!”

Sherlock acknowledged the futility of attempting to escape.  Reading aloud didn’t take up anywhere near his full mental capacity, so it wasn’t long until he noticed that the sounds of John tidying up in the kitchen had ceased.

“Would you care to join us?” Sherlock said as Rosie turned a page.  “I know _Tikki Tikki Tembo_  is your favorite.”

This was not true at all; John despised _Tikki Tikki Tembo_  because he thought the narrator was a bit of a twat, and his favorite was _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ , which was about a caterpillar eating its way to madness.  

“I’m a bit busy, actually,” John said.

“You are, are you?” Sherlock said.  “With what?”

“With the knowledge that only lies have details,” John replied.

“Come on, Daddy!” Rosie called.  “Come read with us!  Pleeeeease!”

It is a well-known fact that there isn’t a father in the world who can deny his daughter when she says “Pleeeease!”, and soon Rosie was sprawled over both them - she really did take up an impressive amount of space for a three year old whose height was on track to eventually match that of her Hobbit-like father.  Somewhere through the third readthrough of _Tikki Tikki Tembo_ , Sherlock was entirely confident that she was fast asleep.

“Pity it wasn’t the one about the caterpillar,” Sherlock said quietly, setting down the book and smoothing down Rosie’s hair.  “I was thinking perhaps we’d send a copy of it to Mycroft, actually, I think he’d relate to the - oh.”

At some point, it seemed, John had fallen asleep too; his chin lolled against his chest in an uncomfortable-looking way.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly.  “ _John_.”

“Mmf,” John mumbled, toppling over until his head was resting precariously on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You’re going to complain about your neck in the morning.”

In response, John let out a light snore.

Hmm.  Sherlock’s choices seemed to be: a) wake John up through less-gentler means, then watch him and Rosie disappear up to their room, or b) remain on the sofa, bored to tears and unable to move and slightly overheated as a sort of makeshift pillow to them both.

If he’d been asked later, Sherlock would have lied and said it was a difficult decision.  


	4. Chapter 4

_iv_

“I know this may be difficult for you to understand, but you don’t need to pack _every_  test tube in the flat,” John said.  

“Leaving them behind is an unacceptable risk,” Sherlock said, his voice muffled due to the fact that he was currently halfway inside a cupboard.

“We’ll be back in a week!”

“I don’t see your point.”

“Look, why don’t we just buy two sets?  You’ll be going back and forth between - ”

“ _We’ll_  be going back and forth - ”

“ - London and Sussex all the time, you’re not going to want to lug an entire crate of glassware every single time you go from one to the other,” John finished.  

Sherlock pulled his head out of the cupboard.  “Do you not like the cottage?”

“What?  Of course I like the cottage.  What does that have to do with - ”

“Because if you don’t like it, we can get another,” Sherlock said.

“What?  Sherlock, the cottage is _yours_ ,” John said.  “Of course I’ll be happy to come stay sometimes, but I’ll be getting my own place soon and - ”

“But it’s by the sea.” 

John frowned.  “Well, yes, that’s true - ” 

“You love the sea,” Sherlock said.  “You always said you wanted to move to the sea one day and get away from the noise and the traffic, didn’t you?”

“Well,” John said, “I suppose I thought, once in a while, that it might be nice to - ”

“Of course, I didn’t know why anyone would ever leave London,” Sherlock said.  “But then I realized - bees!  Nature’s little alchemists!  So it all worked out.”

“Hang on,” John said.  “You bought the cottage because _I_  wanted to leave London?”

“Only partially,” Sherlock said.  “Did you not hear the part about the bees?” 

“Sherlock, why would you decide to buy a house that _I_  would want to live in when until two months ago I was living with - ” John paused.  “Oh, my god.  You knew.  You knew Mary and I were separating before _we_  knew we were separating.”

Sherlock had the grace to look slightly chagrined.  “You said yourselves it was a _very_  long time coming.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” John said.  

“It’s not as though I _told_  you.  I let you figure it out on your own!”

A giggle escaped John’s lips.  “That was very thoughtful of you.”

“Yes, I rather thought so too,” Sherlock said, his lips twisting into a grin.

“You’re terrifying, you know that?” John said.  “And I’m not going to carry your glassware back and forth for the rest of our lives, so you’ll just have to buy two sets if you’d like to have them here and in Sussex.”

“Yes, all right,” Sherlock said, trying to sound annoyed as he stuck his head back in the cupboard, but John could tell tell that he was smiling.  “Don’t forget to pack the pipettes, at least.”

“Course not,” John muttered, heading for the kitchen.  “You’d die without the pipettes.  The pipettes he won’t forget, but has he packed any socks?”

“Oh, _socks_ ,” Sherlock said.

_iii_

“My goodness, why’s he got socks back here?” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Hmm?” John said, glancing up from his tea.

“In the _bookshelf_ , honestly,” she said, picking them up and dusting under them before replacing them.  “Have you thought about packing these up?  Donating them, maybe?”

Sherlock was a hoarder of books; he would be furious to find that any had gone missing in his absence.  “I don’t think I’m quite ready for that, actually,” John said, a bit stiffly.

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said.  “I just thought - but it’s up to you, I’m sorry for - ”

“It’s all right.”

“It took me ages to clear out Frank’s things,” she continued.  “And oh, the things I found!  I learned quite a bit about my husband, I must say - ”

“I’m sure,” John said quickly, wishing idly that Moriarty’s sniper were waiting for him right now.

Mrs. Hudson dusted her way across the shelves and down the mantle until she got to the skull.  “Oh, Sherlock,” she said, her voice hitching.  “He always did love such horrible things.”

“Mm, yes,” John said.

“Those photos of serial killers he would put up for inspiration, and the smoking, and of course all the maggots in the crisper.  Dreadful.”  Mrs. Hudson sniffed.  “I miss him quite terribly.”

“So do I,” John said, honestly.  

“I’ll bring up some dinner later, shall I?” Mrs. Hudson said, wiping her eyes and patting him on the hand.

“That would be lovely,” John said, staring into his tea as she made her way back downstairs.  The day stretched out ahead of him bleakly.  Pretending to grieve was exhausting, especially when he was acutely aware that the object of his false grief wasn’t exactly off on holiday.  

There was a rap on the door.

John jumped out of his chair, barely rescuing his teacup from taking a tumble, and spun around to see - 

“Oh,” he said.  “It’s you.”

“My apologies for startling you,” Mycroft said, standing in the doorway.

“Not a problem,” John said.  “Come in.  Tea?”

“I don’t want to trouble you,” Mycroft said.

John didn’t want to _be_  troubled, so that worked out.  He sat down and gestured to Sherlock’s chair.  “Doing well, then?”

“As well as can be expected,” Mycroft said, twisting his face into what he apparently thought was a sad smile.  “And you?”

“Oh, wonderful,” John said.  “Just fantastic.  Never better, actually.  Watching my best mate commit suicide was a real treat.”

They stared at each for a long moment, until, all at once, the smile fell from Mycroft’s face.  

“I see my brother has been very stupid,” Mycroft said.

“That’s no way to speak of the dead,” John said lightly.

Mycroft sighed.  “He got you a message?”

“Came to see me, actually,” John said.  “ _After_  he threw himself off a building, that is.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.  “How many times must I tell him that sentiment is a weakness?  One that, in this case, may very well get both of you killed.”

“Yes, very sentimental of him,” John said.  “Not letting me think he’d killed himself in front of me - what a softie, that one.”

“I understand that it’s difficult for you to appreciate the gravity of the situation,” Mycroft said, “but it was of utmost importance that interested parties believe that he was dead, and the surest way to convince them was to convince _you_.”

“Well, I’ve convinced them now, haven’t I,” John said.  “Played my part just as I was supposed to.  Where is he?”

“No where you need concern yourself with,” Mycroft said.

“Oh, that’s nice, isn’t it,” John said.  “After all this, I still can’t be trusted, is that it?”

“That’s not what - ” 

“If he’s in danger,” John said, leaning forward, “I have the right to know.  I think I’ve earned that.”

“I happen to agree,” Mycroft said, sounding tired.  “But if you knew where he was, you would attempt to join him, and would assuredly wind up dead.  My brother will forgive me many things, but I can promise you he would not forgive me that.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here and, what, wait for him?”

“For now,” Mycroft said.  “Perhaps you should start dating.”

John blinked.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“Behave as if you’re moving on,” Mycroft said.  “As it becomes clear that you have accepted his death, everyone important will lose interest in you.  Getting a girlfriend might... speed along the process.”

“You’re giving me dating advice?  That is _rich_. I can’t just _replace_  him, you know,” John said.  “Not that a girlfriend would be a replacement for - that is - ”

“It was only a suggestion,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows.  “I rather expected that you’d appreciate some time away from him; it will be much harder for him to sabotage your relationships from beyond the grave.”

“Piss off,” John said.  

Mycroft sighed heavily.  “I’ll endeavor to pass along any information I receive from him, when it is safe to do so,” he said.  He pushed himself to his feet and headed for the door.  “Your discretion and understanding are appreciated.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not doing it for you,” John said.

“Believe me, I am aware,” Mycroft said.  “And John - my brother cares about you, very much.  But I’m not sure he is capable of giving you what you may end up wanting from him.  And that will be much worse for both of you.”

John stared at him.  “I’ll take that under advisement,” he said, looking away.

“Do,” Mycroft said, and John listened until the door shut gently behind him.

_ii_

Sherlock was surprised by the knock on his door.

“Come in,” he called, scrambling up from his desk.

John opened the door.  “Hello.”

His face was blank, but Sherlock could read the whole story of the hours since he’d stormed out as if it were written on his forehead: he had confronted Jeanette; they’d rowed; he’d stormed out and spent an hour, no, an hour and a half at the bar, where he’d consumed an impressive six lagers.  

“Hello,” Sherlock said.  

“You were right,” John said.

_Obviously_ , Sherlock didn’t say.

John stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.  “We ended things,” he said.  

“I see,” Sherlock said.  

“How long had you known?  About her and Mark.”

“Three weeks,” Sherlock said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Sherlock considered all the reasons and chose the most justifiable.  “I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.”

“Right,” John said.  “Well.  Doesn’t matter, really.  She said she was going to chuck me anyway, even if I hadn’t walked in on - well, you know.”  He let out a harsh laugh.  “She said she took up with Mark because she was tired of playing second fiddle.”

Sherlock frowned.  “But you don’t have another - ”

“Second fiddle to _you_.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said.  “In that case, you’re well shot of her.”

“She said you’d say that.  In fact, she always said you didn’t like her.”

“Perhaps she was cleverer than she seemed,” Sherlock said.

John slammed his hand against the wardrobe.  “That’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, because, surprisingly, he was.  

“Jesus.  Do you always have to be so fucking _right_  about everything?”  John pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Was it just a few hours ago I was on a date with her?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.  

“Since then I’ve staked out a girls dormitory, captured a shoe thief, and gotten chucked.”

“And had a few pints.”

“It seemed the thing to do after walking in on my girlfriend with one of my mates.”  John flopped down onto Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock sat next to him.  “You’re angry.”

“Deduced that, did you?  Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not a genius.”

“You’re angry at _me_.”

“A bit, yeah,” John said.  “You should have told me sooner.”

“Noted.”

They sat in silence.  Sherlock watched the clock tick over to 1:26.  He would stay up all night if John wanted to, but John had to be in the lab at 8, and -

“You know what else she said?” 

Sherlock blinked.  “Who?”

“Jeanette,” John said.  “Have you forgotten about her already?  She said something really stupid.”

“People frequently do.”

“It was about you.”

The statement didn’t merit a reply, but people seemed to like them.  “Oh.”  

“Just - _really_  stupid.  You know what it was?”

“What?”

“She said - ” John paused, huffed out a laugh.  “She said - she said you told me about her and Mark because - and honestly, I can’t even believe I’m repeating it - because you wanted to _replace_  her.  I mean, of all the ridiculous things, right?”

“Right.”

“I told her she was being stupid,” John continued, glancing at Sherlock.  “We’re friends.”

“Yes.”  

“That’s what I told her.”

“Naturally.”

“Yeah.”

John was very warm pressed up against his side.  Sherlock drummed his fingers on the bedspread.  

“She was just being stupid,” John said again.  “Right?”

Sherlock rather thought that they had covered the subject of Jeanette’s stupidity exhaustively, but he replied, “Yes.”

“So,” John said, “if I - if I kissed you, right now, you’d say that was stupid, yeah?”

Sherlock froze, mid-drum.  

“Sorry,” John said.  “Dumb thing to say - I’ve been, you know - I didn’t mean - ”

“I wouldn’t,” Sherlock said.

“ - anything by it, just being stupid - what?”

“I wouldn’t,” Sherlock said, stepping off the edge of a cliff, “say it was stupid.  If you kissed me.  Right now.”

John turned slowly to look at him.  “Oh.”

Sherlock was never sure, later, who leaned forward first, but that didn’t matter, what mattered was that they were kissing, and Sherlock had never kissed anyone before, unless you counted Elizabeth from down the road when they were nine, which he vehemently did _not_ , and anyway even if he _had_  kissed anyone before it wouldn’t matter because this was _John_  - 

“Fuck,” John said.  He laughed nervously against Sherlock’s lips; Sherlock was left with the taste of beer and a vague sense that all of his extremities had floated away.  “Maybe Jeanette _was_  cleverer than she seemed.”  

Sherlock tried to think of something cutting to say about Jeanette and failed enormously.  Had kissing caused his brain to shut down?  Is this why everyone else at university was so stupid?  Upon reflection, Sherlock realized, he wouldn’t be opposed to further experimentation.

Later (after they’d disrupted the bedspread and John had whispered, “You’ve done this before, right?” and Sherlock had effortlessly lied and John had made that _sound_  and Sherlock hadn’t even gotten his trousers all the way off) John curled up with one hand tangled in Sherlock’s shirt and promptly fell asleep on Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock realized that he’d either have to 1) wake him if he wanted to get out of his own bed at any point that night or 2) lie awake, slowly losing feeling in his arm until the sun peeked in through the window.

If he’d been asked later, Sherlock would have lied and said it was a difficult decision.  

_v_

“Sorry for falling asleep on you last night,” John said as he wandered into the kitchen the next morning.

“I told you your neck would bother you,” Sherlock replied, not looking up from his laptop.

“Is that your way of saying you didn’t mind?” John said.  “Because you could just _say_  that, you know.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure he could, so instead he said, “Hillary Jacobs’ boyfriend was a drug dealer.”

“Sorry, what?”  

“Tommy Mulligan,” Sherlock said, turning around his computer to show John a photo.  “He’s fairly small time but wildly ambitious.  Drowning isn’t a common form of domestic murder, but it’s not impossible.  They brought him in for questioning and he denied seeing her on the day she died.”

“But you think he was lying?”

“Of course he was lying,” Sherlock said.  “He knew she wasn’t an addict.  Why didn’t he tell them he thought her death was suspicious?  Because he _knew_  it was.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“I’m working on it,” Sherlock said, minimizing the photo of Tommy Mulligan to get back to his blog.  

“Well,” John said, peering over his shoulder at the laptop, “ _this_  looks like a photo of maggots.  Were these the ones you were keeping in my crisper?”

“ _Our_  crisper,” Sherlock reminded him.  “And it’s a blog post about the maggots and the experiments Rosie and I ran on them.”

“If you can name one thing we currently have in the refrigerator, I’ll grant that we share it.”  John leaned closer and scrolled through the blog post.  Sherlock was suddenly aware that John was pressed against him, front to back, John’s chin nearly resting on Sherlock’s shoulder; Sherlock could feel him _breathing_.  

“Yeah, nobody’s going to read this,” John said.  “You know nobody’s going to read this, right?”  

Sherlock was used to personal space being ignored, but usually _he_  was the one doing the ignoring.  Was this revenge for all the years of reading John’s texts over his shoulder?  Was it normal to stare at one’s flatmate’s lips when they were only inches from one’s own?  Maggots, Sherlock thought.  Focus on maggots.

John, meanwhile, seemed completely unaware of the mental breakdown occurring within licking distance of his neck.  “Even if it weren’t for all the entomological specifics, I just don’t think there’re _that_  many people who need to know how long maggots live when exposed to different levels of heat and - ”

“Milk!” Sherlock said triumphantly.  

“Damn,” John said, picking up his tea again.  “I thought you might think of that one.”  

And then he was gone, leaving Sherlock to his blog and his maggots and his heart, making an attempt to beat its way right out of his chest.

_i_

“Oh, I can just see the headlines now,” Watson said as the next song played, the sitting room spinning past them, Holmes’ heart thrumming with the exertion of it.  “ _When he’s not solving crime, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, takes time out of his day to show that he is highly skilled not just at the science of deduction, but also at the art of dance_.”

“You wouldn’t,” Holmes said.

“I most certainly would,” Watson said.  “My readers would be thrilled.  I do so strive to humanize you, and nothing would do the job quite like a description of the look on your face during the upon completion of a perfect pivot.”

“You’re joking,” Holmes said, horrified.

“I am, yes,” Watson admitted with a grin.  “But perhaps you should recall that I have the power to reveal this deepest, darkest secret the next time you abandon me on the edge of town and take off in the only hansom cab for miles.”

“That was one time.” 

“It was twice at least,” Watson said.

“I was _thinking_.”

“That is absolutelynot an excuse.” 

“If you don’t drop it I shall dip you,” Holmes threatened.

“You are welcome to try, my good man.  What other secrets could I tantalize the reading public with?  Your habit of sugaring your tea to within an inch of its life?  Oh, how about the way you panic if your socks are disturbed?”

“I do not _panic_.”

“I’ve seen you react less aggressively to accused murderers.”

“It is deeply tiresome to share a flat with one’s biographer,” Holmes said.  “I absolutely cannot recommend it.”

Watson laughed.  “You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself without me.”

“I would relish the lack of intrusion into my chemical experiments.”

“You’d forget to open the window and suffocate on the fumes.”

“I would play my violin into the quiet hours of the morning.”

“And then you’d forget to _close_  the window and the whole block would have it out for you when you wake them.”

“I would never again be disrupted for something as insignificant as supper time.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Watson said.  “But who would you dance with?”

The gramophone crackled and fell abruptly silent.  Holmes opened his mouth to reply and found, to his horror, that he had absolutely nothing in the way of a retort.  All he could think of was whether Watson’s lips might taste of whiskey.

Holmes dropped his hands.  “A fair point,” he said.  He crossed the room to the gramophone and lifted the needle, making a show of lifting the record and storing it carefully.  Behind him, glasses clinked as Watson poured the last of the whiskey into their tumblers.  

By the time Holmes turned around he was very nearly certain that his face was clear.  “It’s getting late,” he said.

“Yes,” Watson said.  His voice was deep and his eyes were dark in the firelight; he licked his lower lip unconsciously.  They were dancing again, Holmes felt, this time on the edge of a precipice, and if they fell - and a fall it would be, hard and fast and terrifying - they would likely shatter on impact.  

But those moments in the air would be fantastic.  

Watson held out a glass.  “Drink?”


	5. Chapter 5

_“Our doubts are traitors,_ _and make us lose the good we oft might win,_ _by fearing to attempt.”_

\- William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

__

_iv_

“I’m sorry, but my heart just can’t take it,” Sherlock said.  

“Your heart - Sherlock, yesterday you climbed out the window because you thought you saw an interesting leaf,” John said.  “Your heart is fine.”

“You’re the one who said I have high blood pressure.”

“I said you have _slightly_   _elevated_  blood pressure, consistent with someone who used to smoke and still does occasionally when his best friend isn’t looking,” John said.  “I did _not_  say your blood pressure was so high that you were exempt from any and all household tasks that you don’t want to do.  Now get up and help me move this bloody sofa!”

Sherlock was mutinous.  “I like it where it is.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“So move it.”

“Moving a sofa is a two person job.”

“Only if each of the two people _want_  to move it.”  Sherlock dropped onto the sofa in question.  “This is a lovely spot for it.  And right near the lamp!  Perfect for you to sit and read your paper and wear your hideous reading glasses.”

“You’re impossible,” John said.  “I’m moving it whether you like it or not.”

Sherlock crossed his legs primly.  “You’re welcome to try.”

John narrowed his eyes, grasped the arm of the sofa, and _pushed_.

The sofa, annoyingly, stayed put.

“You’ll throw out your back,” Sherlock commented.

“Only if you don’t get up and help me,” John grunted, bracing himself against the floor.

“Is this really your hill to die on?” 

“Only one of us is dying over this,” John said, “and I can promise you that it’s not going to be me.”

Sherlock leaned back against the arm of the sofa.  “I’ve missed this.”

“What, rowing with me?”

“ _Everything_  with you.”

“Including the shouting?” John puffed.  “I’m pretty sure I’ve been shouting at you continuously ever since I met you.”

“I’m trying to be sentimental, you realize.”

“It’s not like you to be sentimental about furniture.” 

“You’re being purposely obtuse.”

“I’m trying to move the sofa!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up.  “Happy now?”

“I will be once you help me push it about three feet to the left.”

“John, I’m trying to tell you that I’m happier than I’ve been in 25 years and all you can can talk about is the bloody sofa!” Sherlock snapped, leaning down and shoving on said sofa so hard that it slid halfway across the floor.

John stood up straight.  “What?”

“Is this where you want it?” Sherlock said, gesturing at the errant furniture.

“Not at all,” John said. 

“Too bad,” Sherlock said, flopping down onto it and burrowing his face in the cushion.

John perched on the arm of the sofa.  “I didn’t realize you were ever _unhappy_.”

“I wasn’t, particularly,” Sherlock said.  “I’m just happier now.  That’s all I was trying to say.”

“Oh,” John said.  “I am, too.”

“Getting out of a bad marriage tends to have that effect.”

“Yes, that helps.”  John looked at the back of Sherlock’s head.  “But I - well, when it comes to it, there’s no one else I’d rather grow old with than you.”

Sherlock rolled over and opened one eye.  “Now who’s being sentimental?”

“I thought we were taking it in turns,” John said.  “I mean it, Sherlock.”

“That’s good,” Sherlock said.  “Because I feel very much the same.”  

John’s heart did something strange, probably all the exertion over the sofa, and before he could think about it too hard, he reached out to run a hand through Sherlock’s salt-and-pepper fringe.  

Sherlock froze.  “Ah,” he said.  “You’ve figured it out.”

“Yes,” John said, simply, because he had.  

Sherlock pressed his lips together.  “I’ve been terribly obvious.”

“Not at all,” John said.  

“You see, but you do not observe,” Sherlock said.

“For once, I’ll agree with you on that,” John said.  Sherlock’s curls were soft between his trembling fingers.  “I’ve been stupid for a very long time, haven’t I.  You do know I’ve always - that is, if you’d come home before I’d met Mary, I - ”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes again.  “It won’t make it any easier.”

“No,” John said.  “I suppose it won’t.”

For a moment they sat like that, John’s hand tangled in Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock breathing in and out.  “So,” John said finally.  “Do we need to talk about - ”

“No, I think we’ve finished,” Sherlock said.

“Okay,” John said.  “Hey.  Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I think I’d like us to move the sofa.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said.

John took a deep breath and stepped off the edge of the cliff.  “And then I think I’d like to take you to bed.”

“ _Oh_.”

_iii_

“Oh, hello,” Mary said.  “So, drinks?”

John blinked.  He’d been staring down at his cheese sandwich and thinking of ash and the many varieties thereof.   “Pardon?”

“I was thinking we could get some,” Mary said from the doorway.  “After work.  I’ve been vomited on twice today already, so something strong, preferably.  If you’re free, that is.  First round’s on me.”

John wasn’t sure what to say, so he settled on, “Oh.”

“Of course it’s fine if you’ve got other plans,” Mary said.  “Bit weird of me, in retrospect, to pop in here with a patient file and ask you to drinks - your next patient is here, by the way, that’s the file in question.”

“Yes,” John said.  “I mean - yes, I am free.  For drinks.”

“Fantastic,” Mary said.  “I’ll pick you up at 5:30?  Bit out of my way, all the way across the hall from the nurse’s station, but I suppose I can make a detour.”

“Great,” John said.  

“See you then,” Mary said, grinning and setting down the file.

“Right,” John said faintly as the door swung shut behind her.  

The rest of the day passed in a blur of strep throat and twisted ankles, and god, he couldn’t wait for this clinic to go digital, he thought to himself as a patient file toppled to the floor and spilled sheets of paper and prescription duplicates.  John gathered up the papers and nearly had them in order when a small square of paper, folded crisply in half, slid out from between a set of X-rays.

John opened the note - what kind of doctor folded up notes and shoved them into files without even noting the date, honestly - and was about to just toss it in on the top and give the whole thing up for a bad job when the handwriting slammed into focus.

_John,_

__

_Hello._

John sucked in a deep breath and flattened the paper out.  

_In case this makes it into the wrong hands, I can’t tell you where I am, or give any identifying details about what I’m doing, or really say anything at all, but I can tell you that things are going fairly well, if you don’t count all the almost dying, which I don’t.  My brother assures me that you’re doing well, which likely means you’re bored out of your mind._

__

John snorted.  As usual, the bastard was right.

_I would like to tell you I’ll be back soon, but I’m not sure I will - every time I close one door behind me it seems I find two more.  It’s a thrilling puzzle most of the time, but less satisfying to solve than I’d imagined it would be.  It seems I’ve become accustomed to having a colleague_.

Imagine that - Sherlock nearly saying “I miss you.”

__

_I’ve been asking my brother to get you a note for months, but now that it comes to it I find I can’t think of anything to say.  Or rather, I can’t think of anything I want to say in a note that my brother will read long before it finds its way to you._

__

John’s heart sped up.  But that - what did he mean by - 

__

_I suppose I should tell you not to bother writing back; he’ll never let anything through to me.  I encourage you to feel free to try, though, as it will certainly annoy him.  Keep well._

And that was it.  John had read more warm, intimate notes scribbled in the margins of medical textbooks.  He read it three more times anyway.  

The door to his office swung open.  “Ready to go?” Mary said.

John blinked up at Mary.  “What?”

“Drinks,” Mary said.  “Remember?  It’s what people do to forget about their shit days.”

“Right,” John said.  “Yes.  Drinks.”  

“Standing is usually required to get to a pub,” Mary said, raising her eyebrows.

“Of course,” John said.  “I - “

He glanced down at the note.

“ - I’ve only just remembered,” John said, the words falling out of his mouth before he could stop them.  “I’ve got dinner plans.  With my landlady.  I’m so sorry.  She’s cooked and everything, and I shouldn’t - ”

“Oh,” Mary said, surprise registering on her face for a moment before she smiled again.  “That’s fine.”

“I really am sorry,” John said, because he was, he _really_  was.  “It’s just that she’s all alone, and she’ll be - ”

“No, I completely understand,” Mary said, already glancing over her shoulder, ready to escape.

“Another time?” John said, knowing there wouldn’t be.

“Absolutely,” Mary said, equally certain.

“Great,” John said, but Mary was already gone.

John pinched the bridge of his nose.  Now he was letting Sherlock scare off potential girlfriends in absentia.   _You absolute moron_.  

On his way out, he passed Mary at the nurse’s station, packing up her things and avoiding his eyes, and he almost stopped and told her he’d cancelled his plans, he was free after all, he’d love to grab a drink.  

Almost.  

But instead he tucked his chin to his chest and pushed the door open and walked home to his cold, empty flat, and if he’d been asked later, he would have lied and said it was a difficult decision.  

_ii_

“Bloody cold,” John said, shoving his hands into his pockets.  “Isn’t it supposed to be summer?

“I hadn’t noticed,” Sherlock said.

“Course not,” John said.  “Seasons are a bit below your pay grade, yeah?”

“Generally, yes,” Sherlock said, pulling on the collar of his coat.

“Yeah,” John said.  “I - Christ, I can’t think of a single thing to say.”

“No, neither can I,” Sherlock said.

They stared at each other.  Behind John, Mr. and Mrs. Watson sat in their car, watching through the windshield.  

“I’ll be able to visit,” John said.  “Eventually.”

“Certainly,” Sherlock said.

“And I’ll call,” John said.  “Whenever I can.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to pick up, though,” John said.  “And check your answerphone once in a while.  Not something you’re in the habit of, I know, but - ”

“Are you quite certain you have to go?” Sherlock blurted out.

John looked away and blew out a breath.  “The Army’s paid for my last three years of school.  I can’t _not_  go.”

“Right,” Sherlock said.  

“It’ll only be a few years,” John said.

“Of course.”

John sighed and looked over his shoulder.  His mother waved a little impatiently.

“You should go,” Sherlock said unnecessarily.

“Yeah,” John said.  “I’d - god, I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

“Not worth it,” Sherlock said.  “They stopped talking to your sister when she came out.”

John blinked.  “How the _hell_  do you know that?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock said.  “You could tell them Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

John laughed and looked away.  “Christ.”

“Worth a try,” Sherlock said, forcing a smile.  “John, there’s something... I should say.  Something I’ve meant to say always and - ”

The car horn blew.

“Jesus,” John said, wincing.  “What were you going to say?”

Sherlock blinked.  In his head, he saw Mycroft’s curled upper lip, and John holding hands with Jeanette, and the answerphone back in his room, informing him that he had zero messages.  “Nothing.”

“Right,” John said.  “Okay.  Well.  I’d better go, then.”

And he held out a hand.

Sherlock took it.  “To the very best of times, John.”  

John squeezed just a little too hard, and then released Sherlock as quickly as if he’d been burnt.  “I’ll call you, all right?  Soon as I can.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said.

John backed away toward the car.  “Take care, yeah?”

“You too,” Sherlock said, and then John lifted one hand in an aborted wave and turned to jog to his parents’ car.

Sherlock watched until the car was out of sight.  The path back to his room was crowded with students celebrating the end of term and families helping graduates move out; Sherlock, being neither, kept his head down.

“What’re _you_  looking so sour about?” 

Sherlock looked Sebastian Wilkes up and down.  “Enjoying ourselves today, are we?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sebastian said, pushing himself away from the wall.

“Constricted pupils, flushed skin, slowed breathing, and you sound even stupider than normal,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.  “Only an idiot wouldn’t be able to see that you’re under the influence of heroin.”

“End of term and all,” Sebastian said, smirking.  “You interested?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell Sebastian of the negative impact of opioids on cognition, reaction time, and the ability to reach orgasm - and paused.  Heroin: a rush of euphoria followed by a feeling of slowness and eventually drowsiness, and then a deep sleep, without any dreams of handshakes and half smiles and cars pulling away.

And then he found himself saying, to Sebastian’s surprise and his own, “Why not?”

“Really?” Sebastian said.  He grinned and slung an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders; Sherlock resisted the urge to remove it.  “Oh, Holmes, this is going to be _fun_.”

_v_

“Well, this is going to be _fun_ ,” Tommy Mulligan drawled.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said under his breath as Mulligan and his men surrounded them.  “This is all part of the plan.”

John gave him a look that clearly communicated deep and abiding skepticism about the details of the plan.

The first part of the plan, as it were, had been to get into the back room of the sandwich shop Tommy Mulligan used as a front for his drug dealing business and look for clues that Mulligan had drowned his girlfriend.  

The _second_  part of the plan - of which John had not been aware, for the simple reason that he would have been distinctly opposed to it - had been to get caught snooping by Mulligan and wring a confession out of him, which would all be transmitted directly to DI Lestrade via the phone in Sherlock’s pocket, and then Lestrade and his squad would pop by and soon they’d have a murderer behind bars and an entire drugs operation shut down to boot.

But even Sherlock Holmes could admit that listening to the loud beep of his phone dying right in the middle of his plan’s execution wasn’t exactly his finest moment.  Bloody iPhones, they were _programmed_  to become obsolete in two years, honestly -

“Sherlock,” John said.  “Why don’t we just leave these men to their business and be on our way?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, mate,” Mulligan said.  “I think we ought to teach Mr. Holmes here what happens to detectives who sniff around where they’re not wanted.”  One of the other men smiled and cracked his knuckles.

“I think we’ve probably learnt the basics of that lesson, actually,” John said.  

“Clearly we’re not involved with the police, because if we were, they’d be here already,” Sherlock said, imagining Lestrade frowning at his mobile and wondering if Sherlock and John had successfully wormed anything incriminating out of their suspect or had just got themselves trapped in a room full of tinned tomatoes.  “I thought maybe you and I could talk about what happened to your girlfriend.”

“You thought we could _talk_?” Mulligan said.  “That was stupid of you.”

“Yes, it was,” John muttered.    

“Hillary wasn’t a drug addict,” Sherlock said.  “Oh, she used once in a while, mostly with you, but she had a good job, worked regular hours.  She wasn’t involved in your business at all, was she?  But she knew all about it.  She knew names and locations, could get in touch with all your contacts if she wanted to; she could sell you out if she was so inclined.  But Hillary loved you; the last text on her phone said as much.  She was planning to see you the night she died.”

“You’re full of shit, you know that?” Mulligan snapped.

“You’re wearing a new shirt, aren’t you?” Sherlock said.

Mulligan stared at him.  “Excuse me?”

“You haven’t even washed it yet,” Sherlock said.

“What the fuck are - ” 

“And then there’s the cat hair on your jeans, and the expensive haircut,” Sherlock said.  “You have a _new_  girlfriend, don’t you?”

Mulligan’s eyes widened.

“You needed Hillary out of the way; she caught you cheating and threatened turn you in to the police.  She was wearing lipstick even though she’d been drowned; your new friend applied it after she died.  That was your mistake - Hillary had a pink one in her purse and your new friend tried red.  Not really her color, was it?”

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” Mulligan said, going pale.  

“No, she looked better in cool tones, I would say, but clearly fashion isn’t _your_  area of expertise either - ”

“You shut the _fuck_  up, you hear me?”  

“Sherlock,” John said shortly.  

“You shut up too,” Mulligan snapped.  “Danny, tie him up.  We have a buyer coming; I’ll deal with them later.”

“Wait,” John said, and that’s when Mulligan pulled back and slammed his fist into the side of Sherlock’s head.  As blackness closed in around Sherlock’s eyes, all he could think was that it was, annoyingly, a very good hit.

_i_

“Yes, very good,” Holmes said, taking the glass from Watson’s hand.  

Watson returned to his chair.  “So.  If you’re to keep me around as your biographer after all, you’ll have to give me _something_  to work with.”

“Pardon?”

“For my next story,” Watson said.  His voice had started to slur; the decanter on the table was empty.  “The tale of Mrs. Carmichael’s ‘stolen’ necklace will fascinate my readers, no doubt, but every story requires a human element.  If I am not to tell your adoring followers of your penchant for dancing after a rousing case, may I at least impress them with your skills at the violin?”

“I don’t see why you should,” Holmes said.  “It has nothing to do with deduction.”

“How many times must I tell you that readers enjoy the idea that, through my stories, they might actually get to know the famous Sherlock Holmes?”

“I have no interest in anyone getting to know me,” Holmes dismissed, settling himself across from Watson and slumping down into his seat.

“That is patently false.”

“How so?”

“You’ve allowed _me_  to get to know you.”

“You’re different.”

Watson leaned forward.  “How, exactly?”

Holmes waved a hand.  “You’re… _you_.”

“An impressive observation, but I was hoping you might go a bit deeper,” Watson said, and slipped forward, toppling off the chair.  He frowned down at the ground for a moment, catching his balance, and then used Holmes’s knee to lever himself back to his armchair.  

Watson looked down at his hand.  “I don’t mind.”

Holmes followed his gaze down, then back up.  The cliff loomed in front of them; Watson was dragging him toward it, though purposely or not, Holmes could not tell.  One misstep spelled ruin.

“Watson,” Holmes said quietly, “you should retire for the evening.”

“I’m sorry, what?  Whyever should I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’m going to do something horrible,” Holmes said.  

“And what would that be, Holmes?” Watson said.  

It could be a calculated risk, a spectacular fall, an indiscretion that was worth the price.  

Or.

Holmes leaned back.  “I shall play the violin again.  The whole night through.  To torment you.” 

“An empty threat.  It is long past midnight, and Mrs. Hudson would throw a fit.”  Watson chortled and clasped his hands together.  “But perhaps you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Holmes said.  

“And you never let me forget it, do you,” Watson said.  He set down his tumbler and pushed himself to his feet.  “Good night, Holmes.”

Holmes listened as he climbed the stairs to his rooms and thought of what his biographer would say: _Holmes, though fearless in his pursuit of London’s most dangerous criminals, is an outright coward in the face of human emotion._

He threw back the last of his whiskey and turned to the fire.  He would not be sleeping tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all the fantastic people who have come along for the ride - I love and appreciate every one of you! Thank you so much for taking the time to read, and I truly hope you enjoy the end.

_iv_

“So where will I be sleeping?” Rosie said, dropping her case in the middle of the room.  She’d already declared the ground floor of the cottage charming and fawned over the fledgling beehive in the garden.  

“All three bedrooms are upstairs,” John said, leading the way to the staircase.  Sherlock, his face buried in his phone, trailed behind.  “Here’s the linen cupboard, and this is the guest room.”

“It’s perfect,” Rosie said.  She flopped onto the bed, which squeaked loudly. “My god, Dad, this bed.  Have you been antiquing?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Sherlock said without looking up.  “You should see the armchair I talked him out of the other day.”

“He doesn’t like _any_  of the furniture I pick,” John said.  

“I’ve the perfect armchair already, why would I want another?”

“Because I’m not dragging it down the stairs of 221B every time we come to the cottage.”

“I’ll set up a pulley system,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

Rosie grinned.  “So where are your bedrooms?”

“Down the hall.  But surely you’d prefer to - ”

“Nope, bedrooms first,” Rosie said, jumping off the bed and to the next doorway.  

“This one’s mine,” John said, gesturing through the open door across the hall.  “And down at the end here is Sherlock’s.”

Rosie peered inside.  “Very nice.  Good view of the garden from this one.  So how long have you two been sleeping together?  
  
John froze.  "Pardon?"  
  
"Not that I want details, because I definitely don't," Rosie continued, as if she hadn't just set off a bomb in the center of the room.  "Three weeks?  A month?  An estimate is fine."  
  
"Um," John said.  
  
Beside him, Sherlock finally looked up from his mobile.  "27 days.  How did you figure it out?"  
  
" _Sherlock_ ," John hissed.  He turned to Rosie.  "Sweetheart, we - "  
  
"First clue was the hospital corners," Rosie said, pointing at the bed.  "You've never done hospital corners in your life, Sherlock, but old habits die hard for former army doctors.  Next, the glass of water on the dresser.  Dad always leaves half-empty waters everywhere; it drove Mum round the bend and was, in all likelihood, a contributing factor to their divorce, so watch out.  And finally - " and here she walked over to the bedside table and picked up a pair of glasses, " - these reading glasses."  
  
"I have reading glasses," Sherlock countered.  
  
"Yes, but you leave yours wherever you happen to take them off," Rosie said.  "They’re as likely to be in the refrigerator as on your bedside table.  Dad's the one who always reads before he goes to sleep; therefore, they're his, and he sleeps here in your room."  
  
Sherlock grinned.  "Very impressive deductions."  
  
"Jesus," John said.  "Rosie - "  
  
"So a little under a month ago, you said?  Aunt Molly's going to be thrilled," Rosie said.  "She had Easter, so the hundred quid is hers.  I was close, I said the start of summer, but Greg thought it wouldn’t be until Christmas, and - "  
  
"I'm sorry," John interrupted, "were people placing _bets_  on us?"  
  
"Obviously," Rosie said.  
  
"Right, we’ll come back that,” John said.  “I know this must be a bit weird for you, but - "  
  
"Dad," Rosie said, putting a hand on his arm.  "It's really not weird.  What's going to be weird is if you try to sit me down and have a big talk about it."  
  
"Told you," Sherlock hummed.

“So as long as we don’t do that, I’m just going to go on being really, really happy for you,” Rosie said.  “Have you told Mum yet?”

“We haven’t told anyone,” John said.  “You were supposed to be the first, if you hadn’t bloody _deduced_  it - I swear to god, Sherlock, I never should have let you teach her to do that.”

“She’s a natural,” Sherlock said.

“You should tell Mum soon,” Rosie said.

“Do you think she’ll be upset?” 

“God, no.  Not at all.  Bit annoyed, maybe.  She had six weeks flat.  Hi Aunt Molly!” Rosie said, lifting her mobile to her ear.  “Guess what?  You won the pool!”

“Oh my god,” John said faintly.  “They had a pool.”

“Mary was a bit optimistic,” Sherlock said.  

“Mary had _six weeks_ ,” John said.  “Christ, we wasted so much time.”

“In some senses of the word.”

John turned to him.  “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” 

“John,” Sherlock said, in that voice that meant _you’re being stupid_.

“I mean it,” John said.  “If you’d ever said - ”

“And how exactly do you imagine that conversation going?” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.  “ _Good morning, John, no cases today, but what would you say to leaving your wife for me?_ ” 

John winced.  “I never would have thought you were trying to _replace_  - ”

Sherlock waved a hand.  “It doesn’t matter.  The point is that I couldn’t have asked.”  He cleared his throat and looked away.  “And anyway, what if you hadn’t felt the same?”

John opened his mouth, then closed it.  “For all that genius, you really can be stupid sometimes.”

“Even I’m capable of occasional idiocy,” Sherlock said.  

“Can you say that again so I can get a recording?” John said.

“Very funny.”  

“At least you stopped being stupid eventually, I suppose.”

“Better late than never.”

John reached up and cupped Sherlock’s cheek in his hand.  “Come here,” he said, pulling him down into a kiss.  Sherlock kissed him back, and they would have soon been out of breath if Rosie hadn’t popped her head out of the guest room.

“Ugh,” she said.  “You two are worse than a couple of teenagers, honestly.”

“Go to your room, young lady,” John said.  

_ii_

“A couple of teenagers found him,” Inspector Lestrade said, opening the door to the ground floor flat.  “They said the window was broken and they assumed it was vacant.  They’ve been interviewed, but I don’t think they’re involved.”

“They’re not,” Sherlock said, glancing around the empty room.  “Probably just looking for a place to have a snog.”

“That’s what I said,” Lestrade said.  “So he was found - ”

“In the center of the room, obviously,” Sherlock said.  “Anyone can see that from the patterns of dirt near the door.”

“Can they?” Lestrade said.

“Anyone with a set of fully functioning eyes, at least.  Surely you’ve got one of those divided amongst the entire force?”

“Holmes, I didn’t bring you here to be insulted,” Lestrade said.

“No, you brought me here to do your job,” Sherlock said.  “But if you wanted me to do it properly, you should have let me in here before they took away the body.”

“I’m not even supposed to have you in here _now_ ,” Lestrade said.  “But seeing as how this is the third corpse we’ve found with all its blood drained in two weeks, I’m getting a bit desperate.”  He sighed as his mobile rang.  “I have to take this, it’s my wife.”

“Speaking of desperate,” Sherlock murmured under his breath as Lestrade ducked out of the room.  

He ran a finger across the window sill; it was smooth and clean.  Freshly painted, even though the rest of the flat hadn’t been painted in twelve years at least.  He pulled the door open and stepped out onto the pavement.  He’d have to check the other windows to confirm it, of course, but if the serial killer was painting sills, then that meant -

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock froze.

Six feet away, holding a bag of groceries and looking both exactly the same and very much older than the last time Sherlock had seen him seven years ago on the last day of term, was John Watson.  

“Hello,” Sherlock said, his own voice sounding very far away.

“Do you live here?” John said, glancing at the open door.

“Oh, no,” Sherlock said.  “There was a murder here.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I’m investigating it,” Sherlock said. 

John raised his eyebrows.  “You’re a police officer?”

“Not exactly,” Sherlock said.  “I consult for them.  Occasionally.  When they need me.  Which is often.”

“Didn’t know the police used consultants,” John said.

“They don’t, really,” Sherlock said.  “You’re home on leave?”

“What?  Oh, yes,” John said.  He shifted his bag from one hand to another.  “Just a few weeks before I’m back out of the country.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“It’s good to - ” Sherlock began, just as John said, “Why didn’t you - ”

They both broke off.  

“Go on,” Sherlock said.

John cleared his throat and looked away.  “You never picked up when I rang.  Never called back.”

Sherlock couldn’t argue with that, so he didn’t.  “I sent you a letter.”

“Yes,” John said.  “You did.”

“I thought it would be easier,” Sherlock said.

John narrowed his eyes.  “Easier?  Easier than _what_?”

Sherlock cleared his throat.  “You should know that I have always considered myself married to my work, and - ”

“It’s fine,” John said.  “Really, it’s - it’s fine.  I get it.”

Sherlock had a feeling he didn’t.

“I just thought,” John said, and looked away.  “I thought we were friends.  At least.”

Sherlock considered telling John that he had never had a friend before or since, and instead said, “We were.”

“Right,” John said.  

“Your girlfriend lives in this neighborhood,” Sherlock said.

John huffed a laugh.  “Can’t keep anything from you, can I?”

“No, not really,” Sherlock said.

“Right,” John said.  “Well.  I should be going.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said.  “It - it was good to see you.”

John looked up at him, and Sherlock could read, in the lines of his face, a million things he didn’t want to see.  “You too.  Enjoy the consulting, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and John gave him a small, tight smile, and continued on his way.

  
“Who was that?” Lestrade said, slipping his mobile into his pocket.

“A friend,” Sherlock said.

“Really?” Lestrade said, craning his neck to try to see John’s retreating back.  “A _friend_?  Hang on, you don’t mean your dealer, do you?”

“No,” Sherlock said.  He pulled on the collar of his coat; he suddenly felt very cold.  “I’ll update you if I solve the murder.”

“Wait a second, Holmes,” Lestrade said, but Sherlock was already walking away.    

_iii_

Sometimes, when John took a second to think of Sherlock coming home, he imagined shaking the other man by the shoulders and telling him how much he’d missed him; other times, when he was feeling especially annoyed, he imagined shouting at him for being away so long; and, occasionally - usually when he’d had a few too many pints - he imagined grabbing him by the collar of his coat and kissing him breathless.

What he _hadn’t_  ever imagined was dropping the shopping all over the floor and saying, “Oh, shit,” which is exactly what he did when he came home one Thursday afternoon and found Sherlock sitting in the living room drinking a cup of tea.

“Hello,” Sherlock said.

A tin of beans rolled into the hallway.

“Jesus Christ,” John said.

“Not quite, though the comparison is surprisingly apt,” Sherlock said.  

“You _arsehole,_ ” John said, stepping over the spilt groceries and throwing his arms around Sherlock’s neck.

“Oh, right, we do hugging now,” Sherlock said.

John pushed him away, laughing.  “You’ve done it, then?  Taken down Moriarty’s network?”

“More or less,” Sherlock said.  

“More or less?  Sherlock, you’ve been gone two _years_ , you’ve got to tell me more than - ”

“I will,” Sherlock said.  “But I’ve got a case for us.”

“A case?” John said. “You’ve only just come back.  Don’t you want to, I don’t know, unpack?” 

“Did you think I was carrying a rolling case around for two years?” Sherlock said.  “There’s an underground terrorist organization and Mycroft’s people can’t figure out who’s in charge of it.  It’s the perfect homecoming gift, isn’t it?”

“But - ”

“But _what_?” Sherlock said, pulling on his coat.  “I know you haven’t got any plans.”

“How could you possibly know that?” 

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.  “John.  I’ve been gone for two years, not two decades.  Please don’t pretend you’ve forgotten my methods.”  He paused in the doorway.  “You do _want_  to come, don’t you?”

Did John want to come?  Christ, it was the wrong question.  John wanted a lot of things; John _wanted_  - 

Well.  There was no sense ruining a perfectly good case, not when Sherlock was finally home.  

And anyway, now that he saw Sherlock, flesh and blood and standing there right in front of him, it seemed a bit mad to imagine that Sherlock could ever have thought of him that way; Sherlock didn’t think of _anyone_  that way.  It had been mad, just his loneliness and boredom and desperation, and now Sherlock was asking him if he _wanted to go on a case_ , and now John mostly just wanted to laugh at himself.  Silly, really.  Sherlock Holmes, coming home and sweeping him off his feet.  

Right.  Not in a million years.

“Yes,” John said.  “Yes, of course I do.”

Sherlock smiled, one of his rare, genuine grins.  “Brilliant,” Sherlock said, and John grinned back and followed him out the door.

_i_

Watson’s door opening above his head startled Holmes out of a doze.  

At some point in the night, the fire had gone out, and the sitting room was chilly and grey in the early morning light.  Watson’s footfalls were slow and heavy on the stairs; he was feeling the aftereffects of the whiskey, and his shoulder was giving him trouble because of the cold.  Holmes burrowed deeper into his dressing gown.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he called in the direction of the stairs.  “Breakfast, if you will!”

“My God, Holmes, must you shout so?” Watson said, wincing as he made his way into the room.  

“You’ll be much improved once you eat something,” Holmes pointed out. 

“I would be much improved if I hadn’t drank half a bottle of whiskey last night,” Watson said.  

“The fire’s gone out,” Holmes said pointedly.

“Yes, I noticed,” Watson said, collapsing into his chair.  “You’ll have to shiver a bit longer; I need tea first.”

“You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“I’d noticed that as well,” Watson said.  “Mrs. Hudson, please tell me you’ve brought tea.”

“Of course I’ve brought tea,” Mrs. Hudson said, setting the breakfast tray down with a clatter that made Watson pinch the bridge of his nose.  “Chilly in here, isn’t it?  My, don’t you two look miserable this morning!  Did you have a case that kept you up?”

“Something like that,” Holmes muttered.

“Oh, before I forget,” Mrs. Hudson said, “a Mr. Carmichael brought a bottle of Scotch over this morning.  Shall I bring it up?”

Watson went a bit green around the edges, his toast halfway to his mouth.  

“Perhaps later,” Holmes said.  

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Watson said.  He waited until Mrs. Hudson had gone to mutter, “I should be happy to never see a glass of liquor again in my life.”

“You’ll take that back after a day to recover,” Holmes said, collecting his tea and leaning back in his seat.  

“Perhaps,” Watson said.  He took a bite of toast and looked pensive.  “Holmes.  Did I - that is, last night.  When we were - I have this strange feeling that I said - well.  Was there anything - ”

“No,” Holmes said quickly.  “Not at all.”

“You’re sure.”

“Absolutely,” Holmes said.  

Watson nodded.  “Right.”  He looked from Holmes to the dark fireplace and back again.  “Do you know, I do feel somewhat revived.  Shall I light the fire?”

“Please, Watson,” Holmes said.  “I’ve been waiting for you all morning.”

_v_

“Sherlock, please,” a voice was saying.  “Sherlock.  Sherlock, wake up.   _Sherlock_.”

“I’m awake, _what_?” Sherlock snapped.

“Sorry, were you having a nice nap?” John said.

Sherlock opened his eyes.  “I’m tied to a shelf.”

“Yes, and I’m tied to a freezer, and Mulligan took our phones and said he’d kill us when he got back from meeting with his new supplier.  There, now you’re all caught up,” John said.  “Any thoughts on how we’re to get out of here?”

“None yet, but I’m sure something will occur to me,” Sherlock said, pulling himself to a sitting position.  

“So being tied up in the storeroom of a sandwich shop wasn’t all part of your _plan_?” John said snidely.

“Don’t make this about the plan.”

“Oh, I am definitely making this about the plan,” John said.  “We’ll be having a whole other conversation about the plan after we get out of here.  Did you tell Lestrade where we were going?”

“I told him to check his voicemail,” Sherlock said.  “

“You told him to - all right.  So he doesn’t know that he should be looking for us.”

“Not exactly, no.”

“Here’s another question,” John said.  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“All right, yes, I should have made sure my mobile was charged,” Sherlock said.  “But in my defense, I forgot that Rosie had been playing Barbie Digital Makeover on it all morning - ”

“I don’t care about your mobile,” John snapped.  “Was your plan to let Mulligan catch us in the back room of one of his fronts?”

“Oh,” Sherlock said.  “Yes.  A bit.”

“Right,” John said, breathing out very heavily through his nose, which Sherlock knew was a bit Not Good.  “Right.  And you didn’t tell me that why, exactly?”

“Because you wouldn’t have liked it,” Sherlock said. 

“Of course I wouldn’t have!  Damn it, Sherlock, you can’t _do_  that to me.”

“Do _what_?” 

“Leave me out of a plan!” John said.

“Why not?  This was the best shot we had to get Mulligan, and if we’d had to stop and have a row about it first we’d never have had time to - ”

“Because sometimes when you leave me out of your plans you _die_  at the end of them!” John shouted.  

_Oh_.

“Well, I didn’t die this time, did I,” Sherlock said, rather sensibly in his opinion.

“Not yet, though I may kill you myself once we get out of here,” John snapped.  “Do you trust me at _all_?”

“Of course I trust you,” Sherlock scoffed.  “I hardly trust anyone else.”

“And yet you can’t promise never to hide things from me that might get us killed,” John said.  “Honestly, you are the most confusing person I’ve ever - ”

“ _I’m_  confusing?” Sherlock shot back.  “I’m not the one going around giving shoulder massages and falling asleep on people and - ”

“You said you didn’t mind the falling asleep,” John said.

“Of course I didn’t bloody mind the falling asleep!” Sherlock said.  “I wouldn’t mind if you fell asleep on me _every_  night, but there’s never exactly a good time to say _that_ , is there?”

The sudden silence seemed very loud in the cramped room.  Sherlock wondered if it was the minor head trauma or the darkness that was making him feel as if he was about to step off the edge of a cliff.

“I suppose this is as good a time as any,” John said finally.  “Sometime in the past ten years, that would have worked too.”

Sherlock glanced at the storeroom door.  “It didn’t seem like something you would want to hear.”

“You weren’t paying attention, clearly,” John said.

“I’m always paying attention,” Sherlock dismissed.  “But I - I never wanted you to think I was trying to replace - ”

“My god, you are an idiot,” John said.  “I never - I _never_  would have thought you were trying to replace Mary.  I loved Mary, I always will, but she replaced _you_ , you absolute _moron_.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said.  “Well.  You could have said something too, you know.”

“Oh, this coming from Mr. ‘I consider myself married to my work’?”  John shook his head.  “Should I have got up one day and said _good morning, Sherlock, no cases today, but what would you say to having a snog?_   You’d have laughed me out of the flat.”

_“_ Clearly _you_  weren’t paying attention, either,” Sherlock said.  “Then again, that’s nothing new.” 

“When we get out of here,” John said, “I don’t know if I’m going to hit you or kiss you.”

“Then this may not be the moment to tell you that I’ve got my hands free,” Sherlock said, twisting his wrist in a way it definitely wasn’t meant to twist and yanking himself away from the shelf.

“Yes, that sounds about right,” John said.  “Get over here and - ”

Sherlock crawled across the small space and pressed his mouth over John’s.

“ - untie me,” John finished.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, “was I not supposed to - ”

“I mean, normally you wait until the other person isn’t tied up, but normal isn’t exactly our area, so,” John said.

“Right,” Sherlock said, making quick work of John’s bindings.  “Anything resembling a weapon in here?”

“Not unless you think you can hit him really hard with a tin of beans,” John said, rubbing his wrists.  

“Not your worst idea,” Sherlock mused.  “Shall we?”

“Let’s,” John said, yanking open the door.

_end_


End file.
